


The Countdown

by KneelingToLoki



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-07
Updated: 2013-09-03
Packaged: 2017-12-18 00:28:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/873639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KneelingToLoki/pseuds/KneelingToLoki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Moriarty wants to play a game, and Sherlock is enthusiastic to play along.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"Here we are again," chimed Moriarty's almost bored tone, "Face-to-face. Dancing around one another like some grotesque waltz."

"So it would seem," replied Sherlock's deep voice while his crystal blue eyes followed the shorter man around the room.

It had been weeks since they had last graced each other with their presence. Next to the pool with the gun and the explosives. Moriarty had disappeared, and Sherlock continued being Sherlock. He looked but wasn't able to find a single trace of the consulting criminal except in his handiwork that would show up every now and then. And now here he was, in Sherlock's sitting room without invitation.

"Did you miss me, Holmes?" He asked with his best impression of puppy-dog eyes, though it ended up a bit more menacing than adorable.

"Not particularly," Sherlock replied with what might have been too much conviction. He then quickly cut to the chase before Moriarty decided to dilly-dally any longer, "What are you doing here?"

Jim pouted, "You never want to play. Always want to know the plan. How things are going to end. Such a spoilsport, you are." He smiled as he met those blue eyes staring intensely at him. "You're so distracting. Every time I see those eyes of yours, a chill shoots down my spine. Makes me want to take them. Keep them. They'll be mine. But oh what a waste that would be. They wouldn't be quite the same without the brilliance behind them, would they?"

Moriarty had been moving closer to Sherlock throughout his talk. His hands moved dramatically through the air as he spoke. Sherlock stood rooted to his spot. He noted the slight elevation in his own pulse, how still he was. Now the man who had barged into his flat was standing less than a foot away. He could smell the obscenely expensive cologne he wore. Pleasant.

They stood motionless like this for several moments. Eyes boring into each other, nothing but the sound of their breathing filling their ears. This did not help Sherlock's elevating pulse. His breaths seemed to be too shallow. Sherlock was the one to break the lull, "What are you doing here, Moriarty?"

Jim smiled that cat grin, "I just came to see if you missed me." He glanced over Sherlock's frame, pausing once again at his sculpted face, "And now I have my answer." He plucked up his coat from the chair he had tossed it on upon his arrival. "So now I'll be off, Sherlock. Things to steal, people to corrupt. But do not fret, my dear, I will return. Maybe I won't make you suffer my absence for so long like this last hiatus." He shouted from the stairs while making his descent, "Ta-ta!"

Sherlock visibly relaxed when he heard the door to the street shut. He strolled over to the window to watch the madman waltz down the street. He found he could not tear his eyes away until the man rounded a corner. The thought of chasing after him flashed fleetingly through his mind only to be quickly dismissed. He wasn't entirely sure what he would do once he had his hands on him. He knew he wouldn't turn him in to the authorities though; he enjoyed the game too much to do such an act.

The detective closed the curtain and stood at the window frame for another second before he fetched a number of nicotine patches. He placed them strategically on his arms and then fell unto the couch to let them take their effect before he allowed his thoughts to drift to his recent visitor.

Those black eyes just stared at him. They absorbed every inch of Sherlock, and Sherlock did the same to their owner. He watched those lips as they spoke of making something of Sherlock's his. "Mine," he had said. The criminal had been so close. If Sherlock had just lifted his hand, he could have touched him. He could have-

"Sherlock?"

His eyes flew open to lock on John standing above him. He had fallen asleep. Acceptable, he had been awake for two, no three, days. Body was due to give out and considering his recently past encounter, it was acceptable. So why was John looking at him scrutinously?

"Yes, John?" his voice lined with inquiry.

John faltered. His eyes nervously glanced down Sherlock only to quickly look back to his face then off to a wall just over Sherlock's head. "You were asleep," he replied swiftly before skittering off to the kitchen to put away his wares.

John was known to state the blatantly obvious, but his demeanor did not correlate to such a mundane situation. Then Sherlock became aware of his own body. He could feel the strain in his trousers. His eyes found the reason for the doctor's uneasiness a moment later. The detective cleared his throat before shifting his position to better hide his very evident erection.

A wet dream. Sherlock had had so few in his lifetime; it took him a second to recognize it. He steepled his fingers before his lips as he thought over the situation. He had been dreaming about Moriarty, there was no question about this. What he failed to thoroughly understand was his body's reaction. He examined the encounter. Each time Moriarty had drew near him, his pulse elevated and breathing rate changed. Logical, he was in the presence of a murderer. A murderer who had taken a keen interest in him. But they weren't the only physical reactions present. Sherlock had ignored the others because of how minor they had been. The tightening of the muscles in his torso, the stirring in his lower abdomen, the sudden desire to lean towards the man instead of away. Sherlock smirked between his fingers. The deduction was too simple, and Jim had already seen it; he had his answer.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock was prodding the hard palate of a four-day old drowned victim when the first came. "John!" he shouted, never moving his precisely placed finger from the cranial orifice of the corpse. The former soldier looked up from where he was seated waiting for Sherlock to be done with this particularly putrid case. "Yes, Sherlock?" he replied, though he was fairly certain he knew the answer.

"Phone. Right coat pocket."

John sighed resignedly as he sauntered over to recover the mobile device. "Text. You want me to read it to you, I presume?"

Sherlock nodded his assent as he pressed hard on the roof of the dead woman's mouth. John twitched at the repulsive crunch that followed. He looked down to the screen to distract himself. "Unknown number. It says, 'Dear Sherly, I do hope you enjoy your gift. I had you in mind. These three days have been wearisome, don't you think? Plans to see you soon. –JM'"

John looked up at Sherlock while he processed the information. "'JM'? As in Jim Moriarty?" His face blanched as the gears kept turning. "Plans? Sherlock, he has plans to get to you. What does he mean three days? Sherlock, are you even listening?"

The taller man seemed overly preoccupied by whatever he had found shoved inside the poor woman's mouth. He didn't grace John with an answer when he took his phone back. "I'll meet you back at the flat," he murmured when he took off towards the morgue's exit.

"Now just wait a minute!" John wailed as Sherlock's black coat disappeared beyond the doors.

The sleuth didn't want him to see. The emotional response that would undoubtedly follow the revelation would not be supportive of the investigation in the least. He fiddled with the item in his pocket as he walked out of St. Bart's onto an avenue. It was a photograph. It had been folded up and surgically placed just above the deceased woman's hard palate. Sherlock had seen the incision. It was not conclusive of any surgery he could think of and the lack of healing or coagulation told him it was done post-mortem.

The tall figure snuck into a café that stayed open till midnight. Ordered a cup of tea and sat next to the window. He let it grow cold as he stared at the photograph. It was a profile of John. His eyes had been ripped out to be replaced by the words, "the one that holds everything". His mind ran through a thousand meanings of the sentence. Too many options, too many variables. He knew then that this was only the first piece. The game had begun and a wicked grin crossed his face as his heart leapt with excitement.

Nothing happened the next day. No body, no crime, no clue. Sherlock was worrying if he had been wrong in his deduction. It was growing close to late evening, and John had been pouting all day. Kept going on about the threat of Moriarty. Sherlock had stopped listening hours ago. Even though he hadn't consented, John set a cup of tea prepared just as he liked it in front of the brooding detective, probably out of habit.

"I just don't understand why you're not doing anything. Could at least inform Lestrade or even Mycroft. It was a threat, Sherlock, and all you're doing is loafing about the flat lost in your own head," whined John as he took the seat across from the couch the man he was attempting conversation with was sprawled on.

Sherlock rolled his eyes over to the former soldier. He was hunched slightly, looking a little deflated. He had dressed even though they hadn't left the building the entire day. His hair was still uncombed, and he hadn't don any shoes. His eyes looked tired and full of worrisome concern. Though now they took on a sheen of hope as he realized that he had obtained Sherlock's attention.

"We're not alerting anyone," he grumbled as he shut his eyes again.

John huffed indignantly. "Then what are we going to do, Sherlock?"

"Wait. We're waiting."

"And what are we waiting for?"

Sherlock made eye contact with John as he spoke, "The next clue, John."

Watson paused with his mouth open to say one thing, then decided on the politer version, "Clue?"

Sherlock had decided it was only fair that John were to know. He fumbled about his pockets until he produced the greatly creased photo. He held it as he reconsidered his decision, but John was looking at him incredulously. His long fingers flipped it over to where John was seated. The doctor tentatively opened it only to toss it back at the person who had given it to him. He was on his feet yelling, "Really, Sherlock! You decided you didn't feel like letting me know some lunatic had ripped a picture of me and shoved it inside a dead woman's mouth?"

His anger rolled off in waves. Sherlock sighed. "No, and this is exactly why."

John growled something unintelligible as he whipped the mobile out of his pocket. "I'm not letting Moriarty threaten my life and do nothing about it, as you seem so obviously fond of doing. We've been here all day and you didn't…" he went back to grumbling as he hit the keys in frustration.

Sherlock lithely jumped up and snatched the phone from his flatmate. John looked like he was seconds from nailing Sherlock in the face before the sleuth interrupted his treacherous thoughts. "It's not a threat."

"Oh really! I think your powers of deduction are slipping, my friend," John spat as he recognized that there was no way he was going to be able to retrieve his phone from those long limbs.

"Don't be ludicrous. You're just not understanding as quickly as I did. It's not a threat, it's a clue," he replied cautiously as he slipped the mobile safely into his pocket.

"Right. A clue. And we're waiting on the next one. Where are they supposed to lead us?" John murmured resignedly.

"Me…and I'm not really sure. I have an idea," Sherlock said, breaking eye contact with the shorter man.

After a moment of standing in silence, John asked, "And that is?"

Sherlock tossed the soldier's phone back to him and returned to his position on the couch. "It's an unfinished thought. I'll let you know when I have more data."

John scoffed. It was then that Sherlock's phone vibrated on the coffee table. They both looked at it simultaneously. A feeling of foreboding passed over the room as Sherlock reached for it. He clicked on the screen, eyes rolled over the text.

"It's him, right?" John voiced out of concern.

"Yes," he replied as he slid it into his pocket.

"Feel like sharing?"

Sherlock snorted. "No, actually. But I have the distinct feeling you'll keep pestering me about it until I do." John nodded furiously.

Sherlock brought his phone out again. "'Dear Sherly, the two of us are playing well together, don't you think? I apologize for your ennui today. Tomorrow will be more promising, I assure you. –JM'"

"He's going to kill again," John stated as he brought his hand up to his face, massaging the bridge of his nose.

"Looks like it."

"And you're just going to wait for it?"

"John, I have grown wearisome of this conversation. Yes, I am waiting for the next clue. No, you are not in any danger, so far as I can see it. No, I am not alerting anyone of what's going on because they are more than likely going to muck it all up," Sherlock replied, agitation evident in each syllable.

"Right. By 'muck it all up' I suspect you mean your sick game with this psychopath?" hissed John.

Sherlock only humphed in response as he rolled onto his side away from the doctor, signaling the end of the verbal exchange. John hesitantly hung around for a moment before he stormed out onto the gloomy London streets.

The sleuth hadn't told John the entire truth. He had omitted a line or two of the text, knowing that it had been only meant for him. 'How did you like the café next to St. Bart's? Would you like it when the lunch crowd starts?' Sherlock had forced himself not to reveal anything to John. He had feared the soldier saw the corners of his mouth twitch as a smile threatened. Though it was now obvious John hadn't suspected any misgivings.

Sherlock relaxed into the couch. He let his mind properly process the new information. A clue is going to arrive tomorrow. Means a death, but a clue. A clue that is going to lead him to-. He hadn't wanted to voice his hypothesis to John. He wouldn't understand, he would be confused. In all actuality, Sherlock himself was a bit befuddled about it. But he was almost certain they were going to lead him to Moriarty. He wants Sherlock to come to him. This caused another unwelcome stirring. Or was it even unwelcome anymore?

His long body suddenly seemed uncomfortable on the small couch. He repositioned himself to where he was lying on his back, head propped on a pillow and legs dangling slightly apart over the farthest armrest. Now he could think. He thought of Moriarty and this whole plot. He thought of the picture and its taunting words. He thought of Moriarty in this room, of that encounter.

Sherlock had known someone was in the flat before he ever opened the door. He didn't bother with his keys because he knew the visitor would have left it open. He attempted to act surprised when he saw the well-clad criminal standing by the window. It probably seemed sardonic, now that he thinks about it. His mind foolishly fast-forwarded the conversation. He was remembering Jim standing close to him. Their eyes locked for what seemed hours. Black into blue, blue into black. His pulse, his breath, everything coming quicker. Moriarty scanning over him. Now instead of leaving, he was bringing his hand to Sherlock's chest. His smile was a knowing one as he slid off Sherlock's coat. No words were passed as he unbuttoned his shirt, leaving the detective's torso completely bare.

In reality, Sherlock had closed his eyes. His lips parted as the images flashed in his mind. His hand had traveled lower. He had done this so rarely, he was almost surprised by how hard he had gotten in so little time. He brought down the waistband of his pajama pants and shorts low enough where he could bring himself out. He sucked in a breath as he started to slowly run his hand along his length.

They were on the couch now. Sherlock was sitting and Moriarty had him straddled. He had lost his top at some point. They were kissing feverishly. Their moans intermingled as hands roamed across heated skin. Sherlock pushed Moriarty into standing and they completely disrobed one another. On the couch again. Sherlock was on his hands on knees. Moriarty's erection pushing insistently against his ass. "Please," Sherlock all but whispered. Moriarty's hand made hard contact with Sherlock's ass. The detective yelped from the pain. "That isn't begging," the criminal hissed into Sherlock's ear, causing chills to run all over him. "Please fuck me, Jim," Sherlock said a little bit louder and with more confidence than before. "Good boy," Moriarty moaned. Then he was fucking him.

Sherlock's fist was pumping faster now. He bit his lip to cease the groans that threatened to voice themselves. It wouldn't be long now; his thoughts made sure of that. His flushed body was squirming on the couch. The build had begun. He was becoming desperate to feel that release, that ecstasy. He envisioned what Moriarty would look like with that ecstasy etched across his face and that was what did him in. Sherlock moaned obscenely as his orgasm seized him. Thought process all but ceased in blissful silence. His hips bucked helplessly against the air. His come was hot and sticky as it shot over his hand and belly. Sherlock collapsed against the couch as the last of his orgasm began to fade. His breathing erratic, pulse racing. He began mumbling to himself, "Oxytocin, serotonin, phenethylamine, endorphin…" He wobbled to his feet and shuffled to the bathroom to clean himself up. Sherlock smiled to himself. He really couldn't wait for the next clue.


	3. Chapter 3

The morning seemed to drag on for eternity. Sherlock was up to four patches in an attempt to distract his mind. He had attempted watching crap telly, experimenting on the effects of hydrochloric acid on mucosal tissue, and thought once about causing himself to pass out to make the time pass by. The day was simply too long.

John was equally going in insane by his flatmate's behavior. The incessant complaining made him forgive every woman he ever thought to be annoying. He almost moaned from delight when he heard Sherlock shout, "Going out!" at eleven. He wasn't about to ask where he was going, and he didn't have the slightest desire to tag along. Dr. Watson leaned back into his chair, closed his eyes, and sighed from relief when he heard the building door slam closed.

Sherlock was early. He wanted to make sure he wouldn't miss a single thing. When he arrived at the café, business was as usual. He bought a cup of tea he had no intention on drinking. Nearly an hour went by as he sat at the same window he had before. He had deduced every worker and person who walked through the door. Dull, every one of them. The only one who perked the slightest interest was a retired American cop who obviously didn't know the gun policy in this country. Sherlock watched him for several minutes. He didn't display anything else peculiar. Sat in the corner with his cup of black coffee and feigned reading a newspaper while he got an eyeful of two scantily clad young women chatting amiably. Sherlock deemed him a harmless pervert of an old man.

Noon was well on its way. Ice blue eyes scanned each person who entered the small café and the street before it. The day was a bit dreary. Clouds hovering in the sky and a chilly wind for a spring day. He was beginning to become impatient. He knew it was of his own doing, but he couldn't help tapping his long fingers on the table before him.

He began to imagine Moriarty was watching him, which of course was quite possible. He could almost feel those black liquid eyes staring at him, watching his impatience. The madman would know that Sherlock would be anxious for the next body; his restlessness would give it away. These thoughts led Sherlock to feel an exhibitionist's high. How inappropriate it was, but he couldn't help the fervent yearning.

Then it happened.

Everyone but Sherlock was stunned into silence when the gunshot rang into the air. When they were falling to the ground or covering their heads, Sherlock was springing out of his chair. His long legs had him to the crime scene within seconds. With one glance he knew the victim was in his late twenties, native Londoner, shot through the forehead with expertise –sniper, the clothes he was wearing were not his usual attire. Did he have a job interview? He was obviously unemployed, but his clothes were expensive. They were given to him for the special occasion. Something was wrong. His face. It wasn't displaying any fear or shock. No, what was it? Happiness? Nearing on ecstasy.

Ah. Sherlock nodded. Martyr. He wanted to be shot. But for what purpose? Sherlock could only think of one reason, if the man hadn't been lied to. He was to be a piece of their game. Mental instability, then. They did seem to flock to like-minded. The sleuth stepped back from the corpse, hands folded behind his back as the medics came rushing in. Sherlock didn't think there would be anything else on this body. He would check on him in the morgue later this evening just in case. But this man's death was the clue itself. He just wasn't sure how.

His phone buzzed. Lithe fingers brought it into his field of vision in seconds, thinking it to be a message from the killer, or the man who ordered the kill. No, John. Calling.

"Yes, John?"

"Where the hell are you? Why didn't you answer any of my messages?"

Sherlock glanced down to his phone. No messages. Moriarty must have intercepted them.

"Didn't get any. Bit busy. What is it?"

He heard John sigh audibly on the line. "There's been another murder-"

"-yes, I know, I'm already there."

"What?" a pause, John must have looked around himself. "I don't see you, where are you?"

Sherlock himself scanned the area. He can't imagine John arriving so quickly. Easy deduction -two murders. How enticing. "Near St. Bart's. Never mind. Where are you?"

"St. Bart's? A flat down on Fleet Street. I'll text you the details. Sherlock, there was a clue, like he said. It was addressed to me."

This had Sherlock hesitating for a second. Addressed to John? He had thought this was just a game between the two of them. Why was he involving John now? "What is it?"

"A card. It's been burned. Just get here, will you?"

"On my way."

Several minutes later, Sherlock was standing in a low-income flat. The tenant was hanging from the ceiling with a chair lying on the floor just below him. The reek of the decaying body had a few officers vomiting their lunch out front. Obvious drug addict –cocaine. Even Sherlock smirked at the irony. Homosexual, out of a job for months now, sister was his dealer, suicide was due to losing a lover, body had been hanging for a few days at least. Sherlock rattled this all off to Lestrade and the rest, then he paused. "Lestrade…what are you doing here?"

A look of confusion passed over him. "Well, John said-" Sherlock then cast his attention towards his friend, waiting for the explanation to come from him.

John looked just as confused as Lestrade. "I got a text from you, Sherlock. You told me to get here as soon as I could. When I got here and you were nowhere to be seen, and then there was this body, and then you weren't answering my messages…I called Lestrade." The doctor looked almost guilty as he told his story, but remained confident in his decision.

The corner of Sherlock's mouth twitched with annoyance, but he didn't say anything about it. He turned back to the DI. "You may be on your way. Call the people who normally deal with this kind of situation."

"But wait a minute, why are you here? What was that business about a clue?" Lestrade retorted, not making the slightest movement towards the door.

Sherlock locked onto him with those eyes in what could be considered a glare, "Never you mind. If we require your services, I assure you Detective Inspector, I will come to you. Now, if you will be on your way." Sherlock made a sweeping motion with his arm towards the exit. Lestrade looked indignant. He glanced over to John and took his leave at the doctor's nod of assent.

Once the group exited the room, Sherlock spun on Dr. Watson demanding more than asking, "Clue?"

The shorter man drew an envelope from his breast pocket. Sherlock had to steady himself to keep from snatching it from his hand. He nodded and gracefully took it from him. It had "John" written across the front in a styled handwriting. A man's script, but lofty. Sherlock peered into its opening and withdrew the plastic card. It was black with overlapping white diamonds in design. The inscription on the front had been burned, but it was still smooth to keep it functioning.

John swayed slightly as he waited for Sherlock's deductions. It was only a few seconds before he slid it into his pocket saying, "Could be a membership card – gym, club, hotel, cinema." John wanted to protest Sherlock taking it. It did have his name on it, but he refrained.

"Right. And why was it addressed to me? If this is your game?" his voice held a little venom as he said 'your'.

Sherlock smirked. "Because you're the one that holds everything."


	4. Chapter 4

The detective spent the rest of the day in the morgue searching the bodies for any further clues. He didn't find any, as he had suspected. He nodded to Molly who was babbling about something as he made his way out of St. Bart's. His long figure had just found its way into the chilly evening air when he felt it. A smile crept across his face – right on time. He dug the phone from his pocket and read the message. "Dear Sherly, now the banquet has been placed before you. You only have one chance. Try not to screw it up. We'd both be pretty disappointed. –JM"

Sherlock tossed the phone into the air and caught it again. This was it. All the clues he would receive. Now it was up to his brilliance. He was sure he would succeed. He shouted for a taxi moment later.

He didn't sleep that night, much to his flatmate's chagrin. A time limit had been set, and he wasn't about to miss it. His large feet incessantly stomped around the sitting room as he obsessed over the information. A board had been set up just above the couch. It was littered with photographs of the victims, copies of Moriarty's texts, the card, and John's desecrated picture.

"Ah!" Sherlock shouted in aggravation, "First victim. 24-year-old woman, drowned, suspected suicide, four days until the body was found, first clue – John's photograph, 'the one that holds everything', first accompanying text – 'I do hope you enjoy your gift. I had you in mind. These three days have been wearisome, don't you think? Plans to see you soon.'" His hands shook his long curly hair to the point he looked completely mad.

John had given up on sleep hours ago with Sherlock's continuous shouting and banging about. He sat in his chair hugging the Union Jack pillow to his chest, face nestled into it. "Yep," was all he replied, his weariness evident in his voice through the cushion. Sherlock dutifully ignored him.

"Second victim. Or, to be assumed the second victim. The text you received, John, announce this victim before the one I was present for had even been dead. So, second victim. 31-year-old man, hanged, suicide, seven days until body was found, second clue – the card, text received day before– 'the two of us are playing well together, don't you think? I apologize for your ennui today. Tomorrow will be more promising, I assure you…'" Sherlock paused to recite the rest of the text silently to himself, though it had proven to be unnecessary.

John awoke the next morning to find Sherlock carrying on. He smirked realizing he had woken to the exact spot he had fallen asleep at. "-ird victim. 28-year-old man, shot by sniper, mentally unstable devotee to Moriarty, death witnessed, nothing found on body, final text – 'now the banquet has been placed before you. You only have one chance. Try not to screw it up. We'd both be pretty disappointed.' What do we know, John?"

The doctor jumped, he hadn't realized Sherlock knew he was awake. "They were all, more or less, suicides," he replied in a very groggy tone.

"Yes, and?"

John sat in silence as he pondered over it. "The first two had been dead awhile."

Sherlock had collapsed on the couch at this point. He was picking at one of the numerous nicotine patches he had placed on his arm like a mosaic. "Correct. Is this of significance? Probably. Four days. Seven days. Zero days."

"Four hundred and seventy," John said, lolling his head to place it sideways on the pillow he clutched to.

"Alright, a number. To what?" Sherlock grumbled.

"Wherever that card goes to. Maybe it's the passcode," John replied ever helpfully.

Sherlock nodded. He snatched the card off the board. There was no hope of reading the inscription; that would be just too easy. He sighed and scanned the rest of the board. Where was he told where to go? Card could go anywhere, though he was fairly certain of what kind of establishment it would take him. He smiled despite himself.

It was still morning, but he knew he only had till that evening to figure it out. Did the location of the victims triangulate the place? No, he doubted Moriarty's devious plan would lead him to a convenience store. He was missing something. "First victim-" he began to rattle off to John's miserable groans.

Hours passed. John had tried to feed him breakfast, and then later lunch. He couldn't be slowed down now. He needed to think. The physical clues – photograph and a card. Card is obviously access to the place that eluded him. Photograph was telling him John would have the card. But why? What good did it do to have John find the card? His mind raced through every option he could think of. Nothing was panning out. Maybe he was thinking too literally. A play on words? The phrase sketched across his eyes seemed vaguely familiar. Maybe from his time in Uni, that didn't seem right. His mind palace was falling short.

The nearly delirious man chuckled to himself. He was going to do what every normal human being does when they cannot figure something out. He popped up off the couch and strolled over the John's laptop. He flipped up the screen and typed in the new password John surely thought was clever. He brought up the website and typed in the phrase. His laugh filled the flat when the answer was delivered to him in 0.24 seconds. Google was a remarkable thing.


	5. Chapter 5

The St. Pancras Renaissance Hotel was one of the many luxurious hotels scattered throughout London. Built in 1873 and then renovated in 2011 for one-hundred-and-fifty million pounds to bring in the higher socio-economic classes, criminal masterminds included. It was about an hour's ride from 221B Baker Street, leaving Sherlock another hour to prepare for his rendezvous.

John quirked up an eyebrow at seeing Sherlock running off to take a shower at a time that was diverging from his norm. The situation grew even odder when the sleuth began to ask advice on his attire. He very rarely asked for advice on anything, more less what shirt looks best with what jacket. Maybe he was concocting a disguise? For a place he needed to look very sharp, apparently.

The final product emerged nearly an hour later. John shifted in his seat uncomfortably at the sight of the well-clad man. The suit was his finest, but didn't look overly posh. It conformed to his body extremely well, while maintaining a sexy laid back appearance. His hair was perfect, as usual, but maybe a little product had been added because it seemed to shine a bit more. He wasn't wearing any cologne, but John could smell the soap he had used. It smelled, well, very masculine. Suddenly John had a vision of women throwing themselves at him on the tube. He told himself it was worry, not jealousy, that panged in his chest.

The doctor jumped when he realized he had been staring, and Sherlock had been watching him. "Excellent," Sherlock remarked, his question seemingly answered by John's too-long silence. The blonde cleared his throat and glanced nervously back to his newspaper. "Going out?" he asked in the most nonchalant voice he could muster.

"Yes, following a lead. No, John," he said quickly as the shorter man made to stand, "I need you here. I have two theories, and I can't be at both places at once. I may be gone for quite some time, so don't wait up for me." His flatmate looked a bit downtrodden, but nodded in agreement anyway. Then Sherlock was gone.

The detective sat impatiently in the back of the taxi. The cabbie had nodded almost knowingly when Sherlock had told him his destination. Sherlock supposed he did look a bit posh, and the accent he obtained from his high-class upbringing probably didn't help matters. Not that he truly cared, but Sherlock had taken a small amount of interest in cab drivers since the Study in Pink case.

If Sherlock hadn't known any better, he would have sworn the cabbie had taken him the most indirect route possible if he based it on how long the trip felt. He was certain his incessant tapping on the window was running the driver up a wall, but the man never said a word of it. Eventually, the small black car halted in front of the luxurious hotel. Sherlock handed him his dues, and made his way towards the door.

It was, of course, absolutely aesthetically amazing. The interior screamed class instead of hype and beauty. The architecture would be something to marvel at, if one did not have a purpose to attend to. Sherlock strolled through the lobby with an air of confidence bordering on arrogance much like everyone else in the area was doing. He headed straight for the lift doors. Inside the little enclosed space, he slipped the card into the slot and hit "4". It began moving. So far, so good.

Moriarty was right. If he got the clue wrong, was mistaken on the room number, and was forced to try another room with the same card, he figured it wouldn't be long until security would escort him out in such an establishment. As he made his way down the hallway of the fourth floor, the detective was suddenly struck by nerves. He was so focused on all of the clues, on the game, he hadn't thought about the ending. His long strides slowed to regular steps. What did he expect when he slid the card into the lock and the door opened with Moriarty on the other side? He was fairly certain, but he hadn't prepared himself, not really.

Ice blue eyes locked onto the room number 470. His hands displayed a slight tremble as he withdrew the card from his breast pocket. Sherlock's lungs filled with a breath of steadying air, and he slid the card into place. The lock clicked with the welcoming glow of the green light. Sherlock smirked, it was a go.


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock opened the door without knocking; he knew the tenant would be expecting him, considering he set the time and Sherlock was not late. The sleuth's heart rate was bordering on tachycardia, breathing shallow and swift, and he was certain his pupils were blown. When at first he was positive, now he wasn't so sure - whether his body's response was from the possibility that this could have all been a trap he'd practically danced into, or if it was from the sheer excitement that it wasn't a trap, that he knew exactly what was about to happen.

His frame then refused to move when his eyes landed on the person who had orchestrated the game that had occupied his mind for several days. Sherlock was certain he looked like "deer-in-the-headlights", but it wasn't from fear, and both knew it. Moriarty had been sitting at a small desk within the lavish room. In his hand, he was playing with an almost unnaturally red apple that appeared to be untouched. Sherlock suddenly thought, Who's the fairest of them all? He smirked and, after the brief spell had broken, he stepped into the room, letting the door shut behind him with finality.

Moriarty kept his attention on the fruit, "I'm glad to see you played the game. I knew you would," a smile kept over his lips, but with his eyes still on the apple, it looked like he was planning its immediate demise, "Did you enjoy it?"

Sherlock suddenly felt awkward. This wasn't exactly how he thought things were going to go. He was expecting there to be minimal talking, more physical communication. His confident stance only faltered for a second, but he knew Moriarty saw it, perhaps it thrilled him. "Yes," Sherlock mumbled, barely audible. Then his confidence came back, "Do you want me to play up your ego? Tell you how brilliant it all was? Oh yes, Jim, the clues were all enthralling. I do have to say, however, it did indeed keep the boredom at bay."

A flash of anger crossed Moriarty's face, "You patronizing me?"

"No," Sherlock's smile still evident, "I'm just not making your ego any more unbearable considering I might be here awhile."

"I'll accept that," Moriarty almost huffed, "Though, do tell me. You obviously got it right, but I can see through that cool, calm, and collected manner of yours. You're just itching to tell me. Adorable, really." Sherlock had just opened his mouth to fall into his tale when Moriarty brought up his hand with a devious smirk. "But, with each deduction, you will remove an article of clothing."

Ah, more games. Another thing Sherlock was not quite prepared for. Life never appeals to fantasy. He thought primal ripping and tearing of clothing, but no, it was going to be slow, embarrassing, teasing. He saw no other way of going about it. Sherlock cleared his throat and began, "Three bodies. All suicides. Done for my benefit so that I wouldn't feel any sort of guilt by playing this game. Unnecessary. So possibly done should someone find out, makes me out to be less of a monster." Moriarty nodded then flicked his hand signaling something should be coming off. Sherlock opted for his coat.

"First clue was the photograph of John. Inscribed across his eyes were the words 'the one that holds everything'. Dual meaning. Initially it meant that he was the one to find the second clue – the hotel card. Then later on, it was discovered that it also pointed to the destination. The phrase is tied to St. Pancras, a soldier. This led me here." Sherlock rattled off as he waved his hand towards the room around him.

"Correct again, Mr. Holmes, next item of your choosing," replied Moriarty who was now acknowledging Sherlock as he kicked off his shoes. "Pity you're taking off all of the safe garments. It's a bit…predictable, don't you think?"

"No reason to move to the grand finale, is there? Sherlock retorted, balanced on two feet again.

Moriarty chuckled, which was a bit unnerving. "Fair enough. Although, I do believe that was two deductions."

Sherlock pressed his lips together as he thought it over, then complied to remove his socks. "Barefoot!" Moriarty hooted, "We're getting there. Carry on."

"First body was found four days after death, second was seven days, and third was day-of. Leading to the number 470," said Sherlock in his scientific tone as his long hands began to work down the buttons on his shirt, "After the St. Pancras discovery, it was easily deduced to be the hotel room number." The shirt slid down his arms and dropped to the floor with the smallest flutter.

There was a pause. Moriarty's dark eyes fell to the tall man's torso. He watched the muscles in his chest stretch and relax with each breath he took. He noticed how controlled they were, Sherlock was very conscious of the criminal's stare. The black eyes flicked up to the blue. "What are you waiting for?"

"The texts arrived at the same time each day, the time you wanted me to meet you." Moriarty's head slowly nodded as his focus turned to those long, pale hands. Sherlock deftly unbuckled his belt, undid the button, and then slowly lowered the zipper. He was about to be exposed to man who looked like an addict about to be given his first fix in weeks. He found that this notion only fueled his excitement.

Sherlock slid his thumbs into the waistband of his pants, then slid them down his thighs, kicking them the rest the way off his ankles. He stood there only clad in his shorts. His erection now only straining against that thin material. He saw Moriarty jerk, like he was about to pounce, but he stopped himself abruptly. The game wasn't done, and he always saw a game through. The deviant then made eye contact with the nearly-undressed detective. His voice was smooth and desperately controlled, "Continue."

A smirk crossed Sherlock's face, even though he was just as nearly undone as Moriarty. "In the texts was a countdown to the day you wanted me to come here. All perfect little instructions," his fingers rested on his hips on top of the elastic band of his shorts. "'Three days,'" thumbs hooked under the band, "'the two of us,'" he began sliding them down, "'one chance.'" Now he stood completely nude in front of a completely dressed criminal mastermind. His body was flooding with a carnal desire. His heart was beating painfully against his rib cage, he was almost dizzy from trying to control his breathing that threatened to become erratic should he take his mind off it, and hot need pooled in his lower belly. His exposure only made it all worse. Knowing his vulnerability had his blood singing with arousal.

Moriarty slowly stood from the desk. Sherlock noted that Moriarty looked how he felt. His own arousal evident in his expensive suit. His lips were parted and eyes black. Nothing difficult about that deduction. The shorter man stood a few feet from Sherlock, probably an act of self-control. "Very good, Sherly," his voice battled between desire and the need to sound condescending, "You are quite clever, aren't you? But how about we do something else with that pretty mouth of yours, hm?" The psychopath peeked through as he ordered, "On your knees!"

Sherlock had complied before his mind had even given him a chance to give a second's thought. Slight worry must have been evident in his features, because Moriarty then took his chin in his hand, "Do not fret, dearie. This is only the beginning." The sudden contact, however minute, sent waves down Sherlock's spine. Though it was in this moment that he realized that there was no going back. He smiled to himself, not that he would actually want to.

Moriarty then stood upright, expecting. Sherlock's hands reached up towards the man's hips when they were violently slapped away. "Wrong," Jim Moriarty stated shortly, followed by no explanation. Sherlock nodded after a short hesitation, then moved his face towards his pelvis. His teeth bit into the leather as he worked to undo the belt. He struggled for a moment, succeeded, then moved on to the button. He could feel the heat of Moriarty's erection against his face as the metal popped through the fabric. This had him wriggling a little with desire. Soon enough he had the zipper lowered. "Good boy," Jim cooed as he lowered his trousers.

Sherlock discovered Moriarty wasn't wearing any shorts. He found himself yearning to see pleasure etched across the criminal's face. He wanted to know he caused that to happen. He licked his lips, sheathed his teeth, and took Moriarty into his mouth. A groan escaped from the standing man. Sherlock wrapped his lips around his cock and slid down its length, his tongue weaving designs along the way. Jim's hands made to the back of the detective's head. His fingers gripped tightly into the wavy black hair, pressing him in farther. "That's it," he moaned, fighting the desire to buck into the kneeling man's throat.

Moriarty looked down to Sherlock's bobbing head. His eyes were closed, eyebrows knit in concentration. The sight of his main adversary on his knees, sucking his cock so willingly, so desperately, almost had him coming too soon. He jerked Sherlock's hair back to the point he was completely out of his mouth. Holmes's eyes glared up at him. Oh it was too much. He was angry he had stopped him. His body wanted him to give in to that stare, just let him continue. But it was too soon. There was so much more to be done.

"Up," he spat, releasing Sherlock's hair. The naked man shakily got to his feet. "Undress me," he ordered despite his feeling of being breathless. Sherlock's anger seemed to subside with the new order. Anxious excitement was evident in his face now as his hands took off the criminal's jacket; his fingers loosened the buttons of his fine silk shirt. Sherlock dropped to his knees once again and removed the shoes that could probably feed a third-world country for a week should they be sold. The socks came off, followed by the previously fallen trousers. It seemed like it was their routine. It had been done hundreds of times before. Sherlock should have probably been unnerved by the comfort; he should have realized how Moriarty was making him feel. But his mind was clouded with absolute lust, so he had no insight into the next moment.

It was the soft touch of the plush hotel carpet he felt against his right cheek that registered first. Then it was the sharp pain in his left that made him cry out. His sympathetic nervous system switched gears in a second's time and he was on his feet, prepared to fight the criminal to the end. His mind registered three objects that could be potential weapons, should the brawl move in any particular direction. The look in his opponent's eyes told him that once again, his deductions threw him in the wrong direction.

"You're not learning," Moriarty pouted comically. "It's okay," he spoke softly now, like he was speaking to a child who had just fallen down, "I'll make you." He stepped closer to Sherlock. The detective found the adrenaline waning, and arousal resurfacing. Moriarty's hand stroked Sherlock's stricken cheek. Sherlock fought the unexpected desire to lean into that hand. He wasn't sure why, but despite what had already transgressed between them, that seemed overly emotional. His stomach churned with annoyance at the fact he had even felt that longing. Jim smiled; he hoped he didn't read what had just passed through Sherlock's mind.

"What do you want, Sherlock?" the deviant murmured in a sickenly sweet tone.

Sherlock felt the test. He could go in various ways, and he wasn't sure how he wanted to proceed. He could be vulgar, say "fuck me" like from some bad porn film. He could flip it, say he wants to fuck him senseless. That wasn't a bad one. But- ah, the answer.

"That, Jim, isn't how this game is being played," Sherlock replied with his usual arrogance.

Moriarty's face lit up like a child at Christmas, "Oh, very good, Sherly." He then rubbed his cheek up against Sherlock's smarting one. "Such a treat you are. I must have been a good boy this year." Sherlock could feel the shorter man smile, felt his warm breath against his ear. Shivers ran down his tall body. Moriarty chuckled in response and then pulled away. The sudden cold Sherlock felt struck him with annoyance.

"So demanding," Moriarty muttered, locking his eyes back on Sherlock's face. "Let's see if I can strip that from you, shall we? Get on the bed."

Sherlock saw Moriarty's hand twitch when he didn't move. Jim stared at him curiously, possibly wondering if Sherlock wanted to make him strike the detective again. Sherlock tilted his head deviously, "In what position would you like me?"

The child at Christmas returned again, black eyes dancing with excitement but void of something Sherlock couldn't quite figure out. "Your most vulnerable," he replied, barely containing his mirth. Sherlock nodded, then made his way to the posh bed. He crawled on top of it on his hands and knees. He lowered his front half to his elbows as if he were bowing to the scenery painting. He leaned back so his ass was in the air, at just the right angle. He was like this for a few silent moments before he felt the familiar sharp pain against his right ass cheek. His cries were muffled in the luxurious pillow. He knew Moriarty was now looking at a perfect red imprint of his hand splayed across Sherlock's backside. "Wrong," he stated, "Must Daddy tell you everything? On your back. Legs spread and lifted." When Sherlock had done as commanded, Jim moved onto the bed and settled between his long pale legs. His fingertips ran up one as he continued, "I want you to see me."

Sherlock's arousal had greatly increased when he had felt Moriarty's hand against him. The pain sent endorphins into his bloodstream. Now his striker was poised above him. "Take yourself in your hand. Stroke," Jim whispered before he slid his fingers between his lips. He then took his lubricated fingers to Sherlock's opening. "This isn't going to be all pleasant. But from the look on your face each time I've hit you, I don't think you're going to mind all that much, are you?"

"No," Sherlock murmured as he fought his body's response to block out Moriarty's probing fingers. He steadied his breathing and focused on opening himself. Jim smiled pleasantly as his digits began sliding in and out of the detective. They were back in the comfort zone, but this time Sherlock knew better. He was slightly unnerved, but he couldn't help the joy that crept up.

Without any warning, Moriarty slammed into Sherlock with his cock. Sherlock shouted from pain and surprise. Moriarty laughed at the noise, "Yes, yes. There we go." Sherlock knew he was probably bleeding, but he didn't have time to fret because Moriarty had begun moving. Jim took Sherlock's legs and draped them over his shoulders. They were so close now.

Sherlock had forgotten his hand; he was so focused on the look on Moriarty's face. Bliss. Oh, but it was such dirty bliss. Parted lips, closed eyes, flushed skin, small beads of sweat on his brow from effort. Sherlock made sure to file away this image of his nemesis. He was sure he would be recalling it multiple times in coming days. His hand. He began moving it again. He matched it with Moriarty's thrusts. It was long and slow right now, but he knew it wouldn't last long. Moriarty was a sadist, but he knew he wanted Sherlock to enjoy this.

The rhythm was set. The room echoed with the sounds of flesh hitting flesh. Carnal. Soon groans were added. Animalistic. The criminal mastermind began upping the pace. This was never meant to be a love-making session. The two men moaned as the pleasure was fed in their veins. Moriarty's breath was hot and humid against Sherlock's long neck. Their bodies slid and hit against one another as they became slick with sweat. Sherlock was becoming lost in all of the sensations. His thoughts were falling away and focusing on the feeling of Moriarty taking him. It was then that Moriarty's hand was pressed violently against his throat. He gasped and made to fight back mindlessly. "Shhhh," Moriarty whispered into his ear. No explanation followed, but Sherlock understood. Breath play. Most vulnerable position. Adrenaline made its reappearance, and Sherlock was willingly taking the ride.

His breathing being constricted, everything had a surreal feeling to it. So easily his life could be taken, but the battle between pleasure and danger waged on. He barely felt it when Jim sank his teeth into the side of his neck, but it only seemed to add to the pleasure. Now they were only two bodies. Pleasure was the only thing that existed. The build began. Moriarty's thrusts became heavier, quicker. Sherlock could feel the other man's muscles tightening, including his grip and bite. Moriarty was going over the edge, but Sherlock could barely pay attention to his obscene cries. His own build was reaching its pinnacle. The dots that had been playing on the peripherals of his vision since Jim had placed his hand at his throat now exploded across the entire field. All of his muscles contracted violently as his come shot across their bellies. His mind ceased completely in the sensation. He was no longer here for the moments of his orgasm. Peace, elation, ecstasy – it all pulsed through him with each wave. And Moriarty was the cause.

After it had passed, Sherlock became aware that Moriarty had collapsed on top of him. It wasn't uncomfortable, he found. He just lied there and relaxed. His breathing and heart rate slowly began to regulate. Seventy beats per minute, twenty breaths per minute - slightly elevated from normal resting rate, Sherlock noted to himself. He was just counting Moriarty's when the man stirred.

"We're disgusting," he groaned, his words muffled in Sherlock's mussed hair.

"Are we?" Sherlock inquired. He was angry at the nervousness he heard in his voice.

"Lying here entwined in one another's sweat and come covered bodies like newlyweds on their honeymoon," Moriarty replied, not bothering to move his head to be better heard.

"No. I think this is the usual routine after sex."

"Is it?" Moriarty murmured, "Not mine. Suppose I'm a 'wham-bam' kind of guy."

Sherlock laughed. "Does that make me special?"

"It makes you a damn good fuck." Now they were both giggling. Moriarty peeled himself off of the taller man and reached for the bedside table. He opened the drawer and drew out a pack of cigarettes, not the cheap kind of course, and a lighter. He lit them both one and lied back beside Sherlock. They puffed in silence for a comfortable moment.

"So, can I ask you a question I probably know the answer to?" Sherlock asked between inhalations.

"If you wish to be so obtuse, go ahead," Moriarty replied while lighting himself another.

"The deaths, the clues, the game – what was it all for? You know you could have just texted me or showed up at the flat."

Moriarty laughed. "You do know the answer. You tell me."

"Foreplay?"

"Foreplay," confirmed Moriarty as he blew out a ring of smoke. "Nothing like a corpse and a mystery to get your blood going. Though I prefer murders, don't you?" Sherlock nodded his assent. "Next time, then."

Sherlock smiled. Next time. Let the game continue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's all folks! I have indeed written a sequel to this. It'll be under the title Chasing Rabbits. =] Thank you to all who gave kudos and wrote comments! Also, this is Kneeling-to-Loki on Tumblr if you wanna find me on there!


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